MYI  iS 


QUAINT  CORNER 
OLD  MEXICO 


University  of  Calif  orrda  •  Berkley 


Quaint  Werner 


n 


A  LITTLE  MEXICAN  NURSE 


Thoto  by  Waite 


A  QUAINT  CORNER 
IN  OLD  MEXICO 


.  .    .BY  ... 

MRS.  PETER  M.  MYERS 


BEDFORD,  OHIO: 

PUBLISHED  BY  MBS.  PETEE  M.  MYEB8 
1906 


Copyright,  1006 
MBS.  PETEB  M.  MYEBS 


A  QUAINT  CORNER  IN 
OLD   MEXICO. 

ONE  may  curse — under  the  breath  and  al- 
ways mildly,  of  course — the  dirt,  the  dis- 
comforts, the  lack  of  good  cooks  and  con- 
veniences, and  all  that,  yet  there  is  that  in 
Old  Mexico  which  takes  hold  of  the  heart-strings 
and  will  not  let  go.  It  is  the  artistic,  I  suppose,  the 
great  patches  of  color  everywhere,  the  softness 
and  sweetness  of  the  air,  the  superb  views  between 
mountain  ranges,  the  broken  and  ever  varying 
line  of  rugged  hills  against  a  matchless  sky,  the 
care-free  life,  the  manna  spirit  pervading  every- 
thing. Dirt  there  is,  a  plenty,  but  it  is  of  the 
most  artistic  sort;  and  poverty  may  be  found 
without  searching,  but  even  that  is  far  removed 
from  the  common-place  by  the  brilliant  color  on 
every  hand,  and  the  politeness  and  gentleness  of 
the  people. 

And  the  charm  of  all  Mexico  amounts  fairly 
to  intoxication  in  the  capital  of  the  State  of  Mo- 
relos,  the  little  city  of  Cuernavaca.  We  all  but 
stumbled  upon  the  place  one  day,  knowing  only 
its  name,  that  it  had  an  altitude  of  five  thousand 
feet,  and  a  hotel  kept  by  an  American.  To  get 
to  it  one  must  first  get  to  Mexico  City,  and  from 
there  start  out  some  morning  on  a  little  train, 
drawn  by  a  little  engine,  which  winds  and  puffs 
its  way  up  the  mountains  for  fifty  miles,  through 
picturesque  villages  and  a  superb  landscape.  The 
fascination  of  this  journey  began  with  us  in  the 
railroad  station  in  Mexico  City,  where  we  bought 
our  breakfast  of  a  Mexican  woman  with  a  kindly 
face  and  generous  heart,  and  ate  from  a  table 
set  out  in  the  station  yard.  Then  we  floated  out 
into  the  Mexican  sunshine — and  there  is  no  sun- 
shine in  all  the  world  just  like  it — and  became 
part  of  the  gentle  Mexican  life  about  us. 

7 


Up,  up  we  climbed,  through  the  clear  bracing 
air,  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  ten  thousand  feet, 
at  Tres  Marias,  where  we  made  our  luncheon  of 
tortillas  and  queer  sandwiches,  composed  of  many 
peppery  and  unknowable  things.  Then  began 
the  descent,  a  drop  of  five  thousand  feet  in  less 
than  twenty-five  miles — sliding,  curving,  wind- 
ing our  way  down  the  mountain,  through  banks 
of  wild  flowers,  and  trees  festooned  with  bril- 
liant orchids,  and  air  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
pines  and  millions  of  blossoming  things. 

With  every  turn  of  the  little  wood-burning 
engine,  as  it  threaded  its  way  through  the  hills, 
we  caught  different  views  of  Cuernavaca,  gleam- 
ing in  the  noon-day  sun,  her  red-tilled  roofs  beck- 
oning us  on,  and  suggesting  something  of  the 
fascination  within  the  old  walls.  Suddenly,  with 
a  quick,  gliding  turn,  we  came  to  the  station 
which  we  supposed  yet  miles  away,  and  here 
suffered  our  first  and  only  disappointment,  in 
the  commonplace  red  wooden  station  buildings — 
such  as  might  be  found  in  any  out  of  the  way 
town  in  the  States.  What  disenchantment  to 
the  searcher  after  the  strange  and  picturesque, 
even  though  the  service  within  is  most  perfect! 
Fortunately  these  buildings  are  a  mile  out  of  the 
city,  and  the  only  wooden  structures  in  the  place. 

It  is  only  a  very  few  years  since  Cuernavaca 
saw  the  little  railroad  trailing  its  way  out  of  the 
mountains.  Then  she  looked  up  for  a  moment, 
and  went  on  with  her  dreaming.  How  could 
she — who  had  stood  there  through  the  centuries, 
serene  and  beautiful,  the  very  home  of  romance 
and  sentiment  and  all  that  is  soft  and  sweet — how 
could  she  pay  attention  to  things  of  commerce? 
To  dream  was  much  more  to  her  liking,  and 
fortunately  for  us  she  is  dreaming  still. 

Stepping  from  the  train,  we  heard  a  little 
babble  of  soft  voices- — no  screaming,  no  con- 


fusion,  no  wild  scramble  for  luggage — and  were 
given  our  choice  of  riding  into  the  city  in  a  coach 
or  one  of  the  tiny  street  cars,  drawn  by  mules. 
We  chose  the  red  coach,  with  four  mules,  driven 
by  a  cochero  who  wore  a  gorgeously  embroidered 
sombrero  and  glove-fitting  trousers,  and  were 
galloped  madly  over  the  cobble-stone  pavements, 
down  through  the  narrow  streets,  and  drew  up 
with  a  flourish  in  front  of  our  hotel  by  the  pla- 
za. This  hotel  is  one  of  the  oldest  buildings  in 
Mexico,  its  windows  heavily  barred  with  iron, 
its  walls  three  feet  thick,  and  having  in  one  cor- 
ner little  loop-holes,  from  which,  in  the  days  of 
war  and  siege  and  conquest,  the  approach  of  an 
enemy  might  be  detected.  In  those  far-off  days 
Cuernavaca  dreamed  some  dreams  which  were 
not  all  pleasant,  but  she  has  forgotten  them,  in 
the  peace  and  contentment  of  now.  This  old 
building  lends  itself  charmingly  for  hotel  pur- 
poses, with  its  spacious  rooms,  red  stone  floors, 
wide  corridors  and  beautiful  patios,  with  their 
fountains  and  ferns  and  tropical  plants. 

We  found  our  way  into  the  big  lofty  entrance, 
and  here  there  was  delightful  unconcern  as  to 
our  arrival — no  office,  no  hurrying  bell-boys,  no 
ambitious  porters,  no  haughty  hotel  clerks.  It 
was  more  like  entering  a  church  after  the  service 
had  begun;  and  when  a  little  later  we  were 
shown  to  our  rooms — large  enough  to  stow  away 
whole  families — we  settled  down  in  great  con- 
tent, and  rejoiced  over  the  quiet  and  restfulness. 
There  are  queer  old  stairways  leading  to  the  roof, 
and  from  there  we  had  our  first  entrancing  view 
of  the  city  and  valley,  with  their  marvelous  set- 
ting of  mountains  and  hills;  here  and  there  cane- 
fields  of  living  green,  clusters  of  royal  palms, 
and  great  patches  of  the  exquisite  Bougainvillea, 
trailing  the  glory  of  its  purple  blossoms  over 
11 


graceful  arches  and  tiled  roofs,  and  old  court- 
yards, and  lighting  up  old  walls. 

Here  is  one  of  the  best  views  in  all  Mexico 
of  Popopatecetl  and  Ixtaccihuatl,  those  two  in- 
comparable peaks,  which  lend  so  much  fascina- 
tion to  the  landscape.  "Popopatecetl  and  his 
Bride"  they  call  them ;  and  the  Aztecs  knew  them 
as  the  royal  lovers;  and  so  they  seem,  as  they 
stand  guard  over  the  beautiful  valley — he  with 
head  erect,  mighty,  superb  and  silent,  she  splen- 
did and  serene,  in  her  glistening  mantle  of  white. 
Sometimes  the  blue  hills  and  low  flying  white 
clouds  weave  garlands  of  lilies  and  forget-me- 
nots,  and  throw  them  about  this  royal  pair;  and 
sometimes,  in  the  evening  lights,  they  both  for- 
get their  majesty,  and  are  all  gentleness,  and 
when  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  change  them  from 
one  glory  to  another,  the  hearts  of  those  who 
look  on  them  are  filled  with  strength  and  peace. 

The  sunsets,  viewed  from  the  hills  or  some 
old  roof,  are  among  the  living  pleasures  of  Cuer- 
navaca,  and  our  only  regret  was  that  we  had  not 
eyes  to  see  in  all  directions  at  once,  and  that  most 
people  would  chatter  even  in  the  presence  of  such 
splendor,  when  God  himself  would  speak  to  them 
if  they  would  only  listen.  How  gratefully  we 
remembered  a  stranger,  who  used  to  stand  on 
the  old  roof  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  in  the  most 
reverent  attitude,  as  if  receiving  a  benediction, 
while  he  drank  in  the  wondrous  beauty.  One 
evening  a  white-haired  man — one  of  the  saints 
still  on  the  earth — approached  the  stranger  and 
asked:  "Do  I  understand,  sir,  that  you  take  off 
your  hat  to  the  sunset?"  "Yes,  sir,"  answered 
the  stranger,  softly ;  "it  is  the  least  I  can  do."  A 
great  quiet  fell  upon  us,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset  was  multiplied.  The  blue  hills  surround- 
ing  the  valley  are  the  crowning  glory  of  this 
12 


whole  enrapturing  scene — part  of  them  rugged 
and  barren  and  broken — and  only  those  who  are 
familiar  with  barren  peaks  can  conceive  the  beau- 
ty of  the  opalescent  tints  these  hills  take  on,  be- 
ginning long  before  the  sun  has  set,  and  holding 
clear  against  the  sky  until  the  last  light  has 
faded  and  the  stars  are  out. 

And  here,  from  the  old  roof,  began  the  en- 
chantment which  continued  to  grow  and 
strengthen  with  every  hour  of  our  many  months 
in  this  quaintest  of  cities.  The  place  is  so  rich 
with  historical  interest,  so  ancient,  so  unique,  so 
full  of  charm  and  witchery,  that  one  hesitates 
to  even  try  to  tell  the  truth  about  it.  It  is  a  part 
of  Italy,  a  little  of  Switzerland,  much  of  Spain, 
somewhat  of  Palestine,  yet  altogether  of  Mexico, 
but  having  an  originality  and  character  quite  its 
own.  The  streets  go  rambling  everywhere — nar- 
row, curving,  jagged,  winding,  turning  ab- 
ruptly, ending  perhaps  in  a  church  or  a  patio,  or 
perhaps  nowhere  at  all,  even  as  they  began. 
Everywhere  we  turned,  everything  our  eyes 
rested  upon,  revealed  something  still  more  pictur- 
esque, some  yet  more  refreshing,  satisfying  view. 
Perhaps  no  description  fits  Cuernavaca  so  well  as 
that  given  by  Mark  Twain  to  a  New  Zealand 
town:  "People  stopped  here  on  their  way  from 
home  to  heaven,  thinking  they  had  arrived."  They 
certainly  began  stopping  in  Cuernavaca  ( or  Quauh- 
nahuac,  as  it  was  called  in  those  days)  long  be- 
fore 1521,  for  it  was  then  an  old  and  flourishing 
city,  when  Cortes  and  his  band  of  Spaniards  and 
Tlascalans  came  over  the  mountains  one  day,  on 
one  of  their  conquering  expeditions.  Seeing  the 
treasure  before  them,  they  crossed  the  barranca, 
marched  into  the  city  under  fire  of  the  little  gar- 
rison, made  a  bonfire  of  many  of  the  buildings, 
and  proclaimed  the  place  as  theirs.  Cortes  must 

15 


have  carried  a  very  convincing  way  with  him, 
for  a  little  later,  so  historians  tell  us,  the  caciques 
not  only  admitted  the  city  belonged  to  Cortes, 
but  apologized  for  even  attempting  to  hold  it 
against  him.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  that  he 
selected  this  beautiful  spot  for  his  home  after 
he  should  have  conquered  the  rest  of  the  country. 

Possibly  in  Cuernavaca  Cortes  left  a  stronger 
impress  of  himself  than  anywhere  else  in  Mex- 
ico, although  it  was  not  until  six  or  seven  years 
after  he  had  taken  the  little  city  that  he  came 
back  to  it  to  live,  and  began  to  make  it  a  fit 
place  for  such  a  Conqueror's  home.  In  the  mean- 
time he  had  settled  his  turbulent  domestic  affairs 
by  strangling  his  wife,  Dona  Catalina,  up  in 
Coyoacan.  Some  chroniclers  of  that  day  said 
Dona  Catalina  died  of  asthma,  but  other  and 
later  writers  boldly  asserted  that  Cortes  stran- 
gled her,  and  his  mother-in-law  tried  to  have 
him  hanged  for  her  daughter's  death.  The  hang- 
ing did  not  take  place,  and  seven  years  later  he 
married  a  second  time,  and  brought  his  bride 
with  him  to  Cuernavaca. 

The  stately  cathedral,  with  its  quaint  domes 
and  old  bells,  its  towers  and  crosses,  built  by 
Cortes  between  1529  and  1531,  can  be  seen  long 
before  the  city  itself  is  more  than  a  speck  on  the 
plains,  and  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  build- 
ings in  the  Republic.  Its  massive  iron-studded 
doors  and  entrances  are  still  in  good  condition, 
and  the  interior  is  not  materially  changed ;  while 
its  loftiness  and  splendid  outlines  suggest  some- 
thing of  the  largeness  and  artistic  nature  of  the 
man  who  built  it. 

Attached  to  the  cathedral  is  a  seminario,  and 
a  hospital,  and  also  the  Bishop's  house,  with  its 
beautiful  garden ;  and  near  by  is  another  wonder- 
ful church,  built  by  Cortes  about  the  same  time, 
and  with  domes  and  entrances  so  artistically 

16 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  MARKET  Photo  by  Waite 


OLD  CHURCH  IN  CATHEDRAL  YARD 


CORNER  OF  RUINS  OF  TEOCALLI  AT  XOCHICALCO 


beautiful  as  to  defy  description.  All  these 
structures  are  enclosed  by  a  high  wall,  with 
quaint  copings,  and  crosses  surmounting  the 
entrances.  A  few  years  ago  all  these  buildings 
and  the  rich  time-painted  wall  were  to  be  fresh- 
ened up  and  made  to  look  nice  and  new,  by  a  coat 
of  white-wash  and  vegetable  dyes;  but  some 
reverent  American  interfered  in  time,  and  saved 
to  us  the  exquisite  tints  and  matchless  colorings 
which  only  the  centuries  could  produce. 

The  palace,  built  by  Cortes  at  about  the  same 
time  with  the  churches,  and  occupied  by  him  as 
his  home,  still  retains  its  original  lines,  except 
a  too  modern  tower  recently  added — and  is  now 
used  as  the  State  House,  the  prison,  court-house, 
police  head-quarters,  and  for  other  municipal  pur- 
poses. It  too  has  its  little  plaza  and  garden, 
and  from  its  upper  balcony  a  beautiful  view  of 
the  valley  and  mountains. 

A  cobble-stone  road  from  Cuernavaca  to  the 
little  pottery  village  of  San  Antone  is  said  to  have 
been  built  by  Cortes,  and  to  be  the  one  over 
which  he  moved  his  army.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  road  begins  near  the  old  cathedral  yard,  and 
spans  the  barranca  over  a  Romanesque  bridge, 
with  wonderful  arches,  under  which  goes  rushing 
a  mountain  stream,  and  along  the  sides  of  the 
barranca  grow  banana  trees,  and  many  strange 
plants  and  flowers.  The  road  climbs  and  zigzags 
its  way  up  past  another  old  church,  which  stands 
in  the  middle  of  the  one  street  of  the  little  village ; 
and  out  of  this  street,  if  a  little  venturesome,  one 
may  find  entrancing  walks  and  rambles,  little 
suspected  by  those  who  keep  to  beaten  paths. 

Some  three  miles  to  the  east  of  the  city  is  an 
hacienda  once  owned  by  Cortes,  and  now  belong- 
ing to  his  descendants.  The  original  buildings, 
still  in  good  condition,  are  now  used  as  a  sugar 
refinery  and  aguadiente  factory,  and  are  most 
quaint  and  rambling  and  spacious. 
21 


We  were  told  of  many  other  things  which 
Cortes  owned,  or  built,  or  did,  and  our  credulity 
was  somewhat  taxed;  but  there  is  so  much  that 
is  authentic,  so  much  that  shows  the  character 
of  the  man,  we  were  willing  to  accept  a  little 
more  than  the  truth  for  the  sake  of  picturesque- 
ness.  One  thing  is  certain,  whether  in  religion, 
or  the  building  of  a  cathedral,  or  a  church,  or  a 
palace,  a  road  or  a  stone  wall,  or  the  structures 
on  an  hacienda,  Cortes  showed  plainly  that  his 
ideas  in  these  things  were  as  magnificent  as  those 
he  held  in  regard  to  the  conquest  of  a  country. 

In  the  old  church-yard  surrounding  the  Cor- 
tes cathedral  is  held  every  year  the  unique 
service  of  blessing  the  animals.  It  is  a  moveable 
feast,  and  the  stranger  within  the  city  is  for- 
tunate to  find  out  its  date  in  time  to  witness  the 
ceremony.  On  the  day  appointed,  early  in  the 
afternoon  the  people  begin  to  congregate  in  the 
spacious  yard,  bringing  with  them  their  house- 
hold and  pet  animals.  Here  we  saw  blue  sheep, 
pink  and  blue  cats  and  dogs,  purple  pigs,  green 
goats,  yellow  doves;  horses  covered  with  gold 
paper  stars  and  tied  with  bands  and  bows  of  flam- 
ing red  silk;  cows,  burros  and  mules,  all  painted 
and  trimmed  in  many  hues ;  whole  cages  of  birds, 
little  chickens,  ducks  and  goslings,  trimmed  up 
with  gaily  colored  papers ;  parrots  painted  and  be- 
ribboned  in  all  the  colors;  turkeys,  geese,  and 
even  old  hens  and  roosters,  in  such  holiday  attire 
as  must  have  astonished  them,  accustomed  though 
they  must  be  to  brilliant  colors.  Finally  little 
space  is  left,  and  soon  after  the  bells  strike  the 
hour  of  five,  the  entrance  to  the  old  church  is 
thrown  open,  a  priest  appears  on  the  threshold, 
and  the  people  make  a  rush  for  the  door,  hold- 
ing their  gorgeous  animals  up  to  catch  the  holy 
water  sprinkled  over  the  multitude. 

It  is  in  the  little  village  of  San  Antone  that 
22 


SCHOOL  CHILDREN  OF  SAN  ANTONE 


IN  THE  BORDA  GARDEN  Photo  by  Cox 


practically  all  of  the  Cuernavaca  pottery  is  made 
— every  hut  and  house  an  individual  factory — and 
we  never  tired  of  watching  these  patient  people 
at  their  work,  the  potters  and  their  clay.  It  seems 
marvelous  that  with  their  primitive  utensils  they 
can  accomplish  what  they  do.  Many  of  them 
have  no  utensils  at  all ;  and  one  young  girl,  who 
sometimes  sat  all  day  long  under  a  canopy  made 
of  a  red  zerape  and  a  straw  mat,  used  only  a 
piece  of  broken  glass  and  a  horse-hair.  With  the 
horse-hair  (one  end  in  her  teeth)  she  deftly 
trimmed  the  top  of  each  piece,  and  with  the  glass 
smoothed  down  all  rough  edges.  She  worked 
lovingly  over  her  molding,  and  seemed  to  take 
much  pride  in  each  completed  piece  as  she  set  it 
out  on  a  board,  ready  for  the  firing.  The  process 
of  making  this  pottery,  from  the  time  of  pound- 
ing the  clay  until  it  comes  in  white  heat  from  the 
firing  pit — which  is  also  a  most  primitive  affair — 
is  a  study  in  care  and  patience,  as  well  as  art. 

But  these  quiet,  gentle  folk  are  always  artistic. 
Whether  in  the  wearing  of  a  sombrero,  zerape,  or 
a  reboso,  the  making  of  pottery,  or  building  a 
stone  fence,  or  the  carrying  of  heavy  loads,  or  even 
in  the  piling  of  mud  bricks,  it  is  always  with  them 
consummate  art — the  more  so  because  it  is  so  un- 
conscious. 

Architecture  in  Cuernavaca  to-day  differs  so 
little  from  that  of  centuries  ago  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  tell  a  new  building  from  the  oldest, 
except  perhaps  by  the  thinness  of  its  walls  or  the 
newness  of  its  tiles.  Directly  the  mud  bricks  are 
in  place,  and  covered  by  a  coat  of  plaster,  and 
colored  by  the  vegetable  dyes,  the  building  takes 
on  a  general  look  of  age,  and  fits  in  and  becomes 
a  harmonious  part  of  its  ancient  surroundings. 
Few  new  houses  are  built,  and  when  one  is 
started,  its  progress  is  so  slow  that  it  takes  on 
more  the  appearance  of  a  ruin  than  anything 


else.  These  houses  are  a  riot  of  soft  rich  colors, 
and  are  set  at  all  angles,  and  no  angles  at  all, 
straying  off  down  the  sides  of  barrancas,  or 
rambling  cheerfully  up  the  hills,  in  delightful 
irregularity.  The  interiors,  however,  remain 
strangely  dark — as  if  windows  were  impossible 
and  undesirable. 

Not  far  from  the  city  is  the  hacienda  and 
country  home  of  Maximilian  and  Carlotta,  with 
its  buildings  and  gardens  and  church.  We  rode 
out  to  it  one  morning  on  horse-back,  paying 
twenty-five  centavos  for  entering  the  enclosure, 
but  there  is  little  to  be  seen  there  now,  except  the 
bare  walls  of  the  old  home  and  a  queer  swimming 
pool  at  the  side  of  the  house,  with  steps  leading 
from  the  door  down  into  the  water. 

One  night,  coming  in  from  the  Cortes  hacien- 
da, we  heard  strains  of  martial  music,  and  turn- 
ing our  burros  in  the  direction,  found  the 
funeral  services  for  a  soldier  being  held  in  the 
little  chapel  of  the  Maximilian  home.  What 
could  be  more  tender  or  fitting  than  a  funeral  at 
the  close  of  day?  Here  the  glorious  sunset,  the 
quaint  surroundings  and  the  hour  lent  themselves 
most  sweetly  to  the  scene,  and  with  the  military 
music,  the  dirge,  the  chanting  of  the  service, 
made  a  picture  to  moisten  the  eyes  and  soften 
the  heart.  As  the  soldiers  carried  their  comrade 
on  their  heads  to  the  tomb  near  the  church,  fol- 
lowed by  the  dark-robed  priests  and  the  band, 
we  turned  our  little  donkeys  toward  the  city,  and 
recalled  the  words  of  another  soldier,  who  car- 
ried his  arms  bravely  and  laid  them  down  long 
since:  "Give  him  a  march  with  his  old  bones; 
there,  out  of  the  glorious  sun-colored  earth,  out 
of  the  day  and  the  dust  and  the  ecstacy — there 
goes  another  faithful  failure."  And  as  we  en- 
tered our  own  quiet  patio,  we  wondered  how  it 
was  possible  for  anyone  to  die  in  Cuernavaca, 


for  it  seems  the  place  in  which  one  should  easily 
and  naturally  live  on  forever. 

Out  a  few  miles  from  Cuernavaca  are  some 
rare  old  ruins  of  teocallis,  where  the  Aztecs  made 
their  human  sacrifices — some  to  the  east  near 
El  Parque,  and  those  of  Xochicalco,  to  the  west. 
Those  near  El  Parque  are  perched  high  on  a 
cliff,  commanding  a  wonderful  view  of  the  val- 
ley; while  those  of  Xochicalco  are  even  more 
beautifully  situated,  and  much  more  accessible. 
These  latter  must  have  once  formed  quite  an  im- 
posing and  important  temple,  and  one  which  was 
expected  to  last  through  the  ages,  for  the  blocks 
of  stone  are  massive,  and  the  curious  figures  on 
them  are  exquisitely  carved.  Here  also  are  un- 
derground caves,  with  something  like  an  oven, 
and  a  chimney  reaching  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
This  may  have  been  the  place  where  the  feasts 
were  prepared  which  Prescott  tells  us  were 
served  at  the  conclusion  of  these  sacrificial  cere- 
monies— the  principal  dish  being  a  slave  well 
roasted.  The  accounts  of  these  atrocious  rites 
are  more  believable  after  a  visit  to  these  ruins, 
where  so  much  art  and  time  and  skill  and  expense 
were  lavished  on  the  temples  where  they  were 
held ;  but  it  seems  a  little  far-fetched  to  call  them 
"Temples  of  God." 

Perhaps  the  most  fascinating  thing  about 
Cuernavaca  is  her  matchless  climate ;  certainly  it 
enhances  all  her  other  charms.  Sheltered  by  the 
mountain  ranges  from  the  winds  that  infest 
Mexico  City  and  the  plains,  with  an  altitude  of 
five  thousand  feet;  on  the  edge  of  the  tropics, 
with  all  the  fruits  and  advantages  of  the  tropics, 
and  none  of  its  discomforts,  it  is  indeed  an  ideal 
place.  Occasionally  a  cold  wind  creeps  over  the 
mountains  for  a  day  or  two,  in  December  and 
January,  but  it  is  rare  indeed,  and  for  the  most 
part  the  days  are  like  our  best  June  weather  in 


New  England  and  the  middle  West.  The  rains 
begin  in  June  or  July,  and  every  day  or  evening 
through  the  summer  there  is  a  shower ;  but  these 
showers  only  clear  and  freshen  the  air,  cool  the 
streets,  and  make  the  place  still  more  delightful. 
From  December  to  June  it  is  never  necessary  to 
plan  one's  day  with  reference  to  the  weather, 
for  so  surely  as  one  wakens  at  all  it  will  be  to 
sunshine  and  soft  dry  air. 

Unlike  most  Mexican  cities,  Cuernavaca  has 
an  abundance  of  water  the  year  round,  supplied 
from  numberless  mountain  streams,  There  are 
fountains  in  the  streets  and  patios,  and  at  the 
side  of  many  of  the  streets  little  streams  go  rush- 
ing and  rippling  over  the  stones.  In  these  cold 
streams  by  the  roadside  the  women  do  their 
washing,  putting  the  clothes  dripping  wet  on  the 
ground  to  dry.  And  herein  is  the  marvel,  that 
out  of  this  environment  of  ice-cold  water,  stone 
wash-boards  and  dirt,  the  clothes  come  snowy 
white  and  spotless — so  exquisitely  done  as  to 
make  one  dread  to  wear  them  again,  for  fear  the 
miracle  can  never  be  repeated. 

The  little  plaza  in  Cuernavaca  is  like  most 
plazas  in  Mexican  cities.  Here  all  the  space 
between  the  walks  is  filled  with  flowers,  oleander 
trees  and  crepe  myrtle,  and  many  of  our  own 
home  flowers  grow  in  the  friendliest  way  along 
with  strange  plants  and  flowers  whose  names  we 
could  never  learn  to  pronounce.  Of  course  the 
band-stand  is  here,  and  whether  the  same  custom 
prevails  in  other  places  in  Mexico  I  do  not  know, 
but  in  Cuernavaca,  on  all  national  holidays,  the 
little  band  goes  to  the  plaza  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, marching  through  the  streets  at  the  very  first 
peep  of  day,  playing  the  national  airs  and  arous- 
ing patriotism  and  joy  in  the  dullest  soul.  The 
church  bells  ring  violently,  the  band  continues  to 
play,  and  the  fiesta  day  is  ushered  in,  to  go  its 
accustomed  way. 


The  old  market  place  is  across  from  the  plaza, 
and  from  the  roof  of  our  hotel  we  could  look 
down  into  the  very  center  of  this  quaint,  queer 
place.  In  the  middle  of  it  is  a  large  fountain, 
around  which  much  of  the  life  clusters,  and  all 
about  are  queer  booths  and  corners.  Except  in 
the  more  pretentious  booths,  the  wares  are  spread 
out  on  the  cobble-stones,  under  a  shade  made  of 
straw  mats,  deftly  fastened  to  a  tripod,  so  as  to 
revolve  and  catch  the  suns  rays  at  any  angle.  On 
the  two  principal  market  days — Mondays 
and  Thursdays — this  is  a  busy,  crowded 
place,  full  of  color.  Indeed  it  is  a  fascin- 
ating place  then,  and  on  a  bag  of  corn 
or  a  bundle  of  palmetto  mats,  we  sat 
through  joyful  hours,  watching  the  strange  life, 
and  sometimes  wondered  that  these  people  are 
called  lazy.  To  carry  on  as  much  selling  in  most 
places  would  mean  pandemonium,  but  there  is  no 
noise  here — a  little  hum  of  soft  voices  perhaps, 
but  no  mad  endeavors  to  gain  buyers.  They  are 
too  polite  for  that ;  yet  never  have  I  seen  venders 
pay  more  strict  attention  to  business,  while  the 
weight  of  the  loads  they  carry  on  their  backs,  in 
getting  their  wares  to  and  from  the  market,  is 
almost  incredible.  They  bring  them  from  miles 
around,  over  the  roughest  and  stoniest  roads  and 
up  and  down  many  steep  hills ;  but  silently  they 
come,  and  silently  they  pack  up  their  loads  again 
at  night,  and  glide  away. 

One  of  the  most  picturesque  sights  to  be  seen 
anywhere  in  Mexico  is  this  stream  of  pilgrims, 
the  peons  in  their  white  linen  suits  and  big  som- 
breros, men,  women  and  children,  as  they  come 
and  go  over  the  hills  to  and  from  the  market, 
bare-footed  or  wearing  leather  sandals,  and  mov- 
ing along  over  the  stones  with  a  free,  swinging 
motion,  as  soft  and  gliding  as  their  language 
— indeed  the  walk  of  some  of  these  Indian 
women,  in  its  freedom  and  gracefulness,  reminded 

31 


me  of  the  low,  slow  flying  of  a  bird.  They  all 
carry  heavy  loads,  so  that  their  backs  bend  under 
them,  but  never  yet  have  I  met  one  so  heavily 
burdened  but  that  I  caught  a  cheerful  greeting. 
"Good  afternoon,"  we  say,  and  they  answer: 
"Good  afternoon,  Senorita.  How  do  you  do?  I 
hope  you  are  well ;  adios" ;  and  frequently  supple- 
ment this  with  "Go  you  with  God,"  or  some 
other  gentle  wish,  and  all  with  a  smile  and  the 
most  pleasing  cordiality — indeed  these  greetings 
were  so  pleasant  and  so  sincere  that  we  sought 
more  pilgrims  that  we  might  get  more  of  their 
greetings ;  and  however  polite  we  might  be,  these 
peons  by  the  wayside  were  always  more  than  a 
match  for  us. 

One  afternoon  as  we  wandered  out  over  the 
hills  after  a  shower  a  superb  rainbow  spanned  the 
valley,  each  end  resting  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains. Band  after  band  of  these  white-clad  pil- 
grims, with  heavy  loads  on  their  backs,  and  driv- 
ing their  little  burros  in  front  of  them,  passed 
through  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  stepping  fairly; 
on  the  bag  of  gold,  and  were  lighted  up  as  with 
a  great  glory.  On  they  glided,  carrying  their 
loads  as  if  they  were  so  much  joy — all  uncon- 
scious of  the  glory  they  were  passing  through— 
but  to  us  it  was  as  if  we  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  pathway  of  life  illumined.  Perhaps  we  too 
are  unconscious  of  the  glory  we  are  passing 
through. 

The  Borda  Garden,  beginning  almost  across 
the  street  from  the  cathedral  yard,  and  completed 
sometime  in  the  eighteenth  century,  is  both  his- 
toric and  beautiful.  In  the  palace  connected 
with  the  garden  Maximilian  and  Carlotta  lived, 
and  certain  delectable  places  in  the  garden  are 
now  pointed  out  as  the  favorite  haunts  of  Car- 
lotta: Here  she  rowed  on  the  lake,  there  she 
bathed  in  the  pool,  or  yonder  walked  in  the  cool- 
ing shade.  It  was  an  exquisite  spot  in  which  to 


FOUNTAIN  IN  BORDA  GARDEN 


Photo  by  Cox 


dream  of  a  splendid  empire  for  the  man  she  loved 
so  madly. 

This  garden  is  one  of  the  things  in  Cuer- 
navaca  with  which  Cortes  seems  to  have  had 
nothing  to  do ;  but  the  garden  has  a  look  of  age 
which  might  carry  it  back  far  beyond  his  time, 
and  it  has  a  quaintness  and  charm  of  its  own, 
with  its  many  old  arbors,  fountains,  shady  walks, 
tropical  plants  and  trees,  and  cool  miradors  over- 
looking the  barranca.  Among  its  fountains  is 
one  peculiarly  artistic  and  oriental — one  of  the 
quaintest  to  be  found  anywhere.  The  entire 
garden  is  enclosed  by  a  massive  wall,  on  which 
rose  vines  climb,  and  stray  along  out  over  the  top, 
giving  a  hint  of  the  loveliness  within.  The 
entrance  to  the  garden  is  by  the  side  of  another 
old  church,  with  cracked  walls  and  an  exquisite 
dome,  and  old  bells  hung  on  wooden  cross-sticks. 

Cuernavaca  has  her  electric  lights,  and  water- 
works, public  parks,  and  numerous  hotels;  and 
there  are  shops  and  shop-windows,  portales,  pul- 
que-shops and  pawn-shops,  and  other  evidences 
of  a  city  of  some  twenty  thousand  souls ;  but  the 
streets  are  deserted  by  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
the  patio  entrances  are  closed,  and  silence  creeps 
down  from  the  mountains  and  envelopes  the 
town.  Except  for  a  straggler  now  and  then,  and 
the  gendarmes  who  blow  their  whistles  at  stated 
intervals,  and  occasional  barking  of  dogs,  few 
sounds  are  to  be  heard.  There  are  no  wagons 
in  the  town,  to  rattle  over  the  stones  before  day- 
light, for  all  "teaming"  is  done  on  the  backs  of 
burros,  and  on  the  little  mule-cars,  which  make 
a  few  trips  each  day  to  the  railroad  station.  The 
few  coaches  are  seldom  in  evidence  about  the 
plaza  until  after  the  breakfast  hour,  so  one's 
morning  sleep  need  not  be  interfered  with. 

Nowhere  is  it  so  easy  to  be  happy  as  in  Cuer- 
navaca— that  is  if  one  is  equipped  with  a  disposi- 
tion to  be  happy  anywhere.  The  atmosphere,  the 


life,  the  language,  are  all  so  soft  and  sweet  as  to 
bar  out  inharmonious  things,  and  the  sojourner 
will  do  well  to  give  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  unlim- 
ited and  constant  sunshine,  queer  sights,  every 
thing  different  from  every  other  place  or  life. 
It  is  indeed  the  most  perfect  environment  for 
living  the  simple  life  happily. 

But  it  would  be  easy  to  talk  on  forever  of 
Cuernavaca,  and  yet  give  no  adequate  idea  of 
her  charm.  The  walks  and  views  are  so  many, 
so  varied,  and  so  soul-satisfying;  some  new 
delight  reveals  itself  constantly;  the  door  to 
yet  another  rare  old  patio  is  left  ajar,  disclosing 
always  more  of  the  beautiful  Bougainvillea, 
sometimes  hanging  lovingly  over  a  fountain,  or 
clinging  to  the  old  tiles,  or  filling  the  branches 
of  a  tree ;  some  still  quainter  corner  comes 
unexpectedly  into  view;  a  yet  more  enchanting 
walk  is  stumbled  upon  by  following  out  some  of 
the  rambling  streets,  while  the  familiar  ones 
grow  more  and  more  dear,  and  the  thought  of 
leaving  it  all  makes  a  heavy  heart. 

The  shadows  were  lengthening  one  day  as  we 
climbed  the  mountains  toward  home,  and  as  we 
looked  longingly  back  to  the  little  city,  we  gave 
thanks  that  there  the  strenuous  life  cannot  be 
lived ;  that  the  place  is  still  unspoiled  by  tourists, 
and  that  whoever  lies  down  to  sleep  within  her 
quaint  and  quiet  patios  must  wake  to  sunshine 
and  gladness  so  surely  as  the  morning  breaks. 

Cuernavaca!  The  "horn  of  a  cow"  you  may 
be,  as  the  literal  translation  of  your  name  tells 
the  world,  but  you  are  more !  You  are  the  City  of 
Delight,  where  just  to  be  alive  is  joy  enough! 
You  are  the  Valley  of  Content,  where  only  soft 
winds  blow !  You  are  the  Spirit  of  Peace,  and  to 
know  you  is  to  know  the  Queen  of  Dreamland, 
and  to  wish  to  dream  on  with  you  forever !  Adios ! 
Adios ! 


